Yesler, still moving slowly with a walking stick by reason of his green wound, left the street-car and made his way up Forest Road to the house which bore the number 792. In the remote past there had been some spasmodic attempt to cultivate grass and raise some shade-trees along the sidewalks, but this had long since been given up as abortive. An air of decay hung over the street, the unmistakable suggestion of better days. This was writ large over the house in front of which Yesler stopped. The gate hung on one hinge, boards were missing from the walk, and a dilapidated shutter, which had once been green, swayed in the breeze.
A woman of about thirty, dark and pretty but poorly dressed, came to the door in answer to his ring. Two little children, a boy and a girl, with their mother’s shy long-lashed Southern eyes of brown, clung to her skirts and gazed at the stranger.
“This is where Mr. Pelton lives, is it not?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he at home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I see him?”
“He’s sick.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Too sick to be seen? If not, I should like very much to see him. I have business with him.”
The young woman looked at him a little defiantly and a little suspiciously. “Are you a reporter?”